End Times

I’ve been told we metamorphose every seven years. If that’s true, I feel sorry for dogs. But, I know it’s true. Really. I turned 78 last year, and I can feel and actually measure the effect of memory loss. It’s no longer the funny anecdote about losing your keys or putting your wallet in the glove box, then searching for the wallet for two days because you’ve never done that before. It is now a fact of life. My life, anyway.

If you don’t suffer from the unpreventable condition that leaves you standing in front of some irritated clerk because you forgot your wallet – for the very first time in your life - you can only make light of the condition and blame it on just getting older. Hahahaha.

To me, it is terrifying. I have always been known for my remarkable memory, and yet I can’t remember what I was going to write about when I sat down in front of my computer. Well, too bad! I’m here now so this is what you’re going to get. Is it the first sign of the dreaded Alzheimer’s disease or is it simply the fate every human who is fortunate to live as long as I have? Am I simply enduring the aging process as I slowly grind along toward my final breath? Well, not as long as I can reach this keyboard!

It will probably cause undue stress on my family if I print this now, so maybe I’ll tuck it away and let them find this in my pile of papers left in one of several boxes scattered in the attic. Yes, I can still climb the pull down ladder and climb the rickety, cheaply made access to our semi-attic. We live in Florida, there are only pretend attics here. You would not believe how many people down here in Florida step on the poster-board attic floor, that is in reality only the flimsy ceiling over the living room, thinking they are up north somewhere where attics actually have weight-bearing floors. At least I haven’t forgotten to step only on the cross beams. How stupid and old would I feel if my leg were waving down from the ceiling in front of someone’s face sitting on the commode in the bathroom?

Some of you older people know what I’m doing here, but most of the younger ones won’t have a clue. I’m putzing around on the keyboard, waiting for my muse to take over and finish what I sat down to write in the first place. Trust me, she dictates what I write. I sit back when I’m done and wonder where the hell that came from? Come to think of it, maybe she’s writing this as I lament my inability to recall what I was trying to write when I sat down.

And here I thought my muse had abandoned me! I haven’t heard a word, or more correctly a keystroke from her in a year and a half now, ever since I turned Seventy-Seven. Well, some silly stuff for my Blogs, not anything of substance.

Ow! That hurt! She just slapped me against the head! OK, OK! So blogging was just an excuse to put pen to paper – I remember that from English class some sixty-five years ago – and I should appreciate whatever it is I remembered from who I was. Or rather, what I did as opposed to what I said or wrote.

Fickle is as fickle does, I should have known better. Oh, wait! I hear laughter from somewhere. I still don’t remember why I sat down here in the first place. The laughter is not infectious or endearing. My muse is getting as old as I am.

Oh! I remember now! I have the definition of time! Time is simply defined by… Oh, well. Let’s see what else she comes up with.

George